


Festive Fics, 2020 Edition ~ Gramander

by AntiGravitas



Series: Festive Ficlets [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Festive Fics, M/M, Winter Fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiGravitas/pseuds/AntiGravitas
Summary: A small collection of Christmas, New Year and Winter fics for Gramander, posting every so often between now and Jan 1st.Featuring: fluff, wingfic, present giving, New Year resolutions for the discerning animagus, and other seasonal comfort fic. :]
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Series: Festive Ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069169
Comments: 30
Kudos: 52





	1. A Kiss Under The Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Last year I managed a whole 12 days of Christmas ficlets, you can read those [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873745/chapters/52208041). This year I have three written and several more planned - one unrelated ficlet per chapter, currently my thinking is there'll be up to five. Maybe more, depending on what spare time I get. :]
> 
> Please enjoy these - rating is currently set to M in the unlikely event a future one of them turns out to need it, but I'll tweak that down to T by the end no doubt. Regardless, there will be nothing trying, testing, or angst-filled in this collection, only seasonal fluff to round off a hell of a year. :]

Although he hadn’t intended to take part, let it not be said that Newton Scamander backs down from a challenge. What’s more, since wands were invented in Europe, it practically falls to him to uphold the honour of the continent. Or rather, someone had made a disparaging remark about the capabilities of non-aurors when it comes to effective wandwork and that had been that. And then of course Harris, smug and all too certain of his own superiority, had chimed in with “You guys may have invented them, but you left it to us Americans to hone the technique,” and then that truly  _ had _ been that. 

So that’s how Newt finds himself enrolled in the annual MACUSA Christmas duelling competition. In his defence he doesn’t give a poor showing (which is jolly good because he’s well aware that, owing to some complex, rarely acknowledged but very real rivalry between the two DMLEs, the results will be formally sent across the ocean for the viewing pleasure of the British Head Auror, i.e. Theseus. Or perhaps they’re intended as a subtle warning, Newt really wouldn’t like to say). Regardless, he dons his best duelling robes, does a few stretches and gathers with the other competitors beneath the pleasantly fir-scented festive boughs decorating the training hall, ready to give it his all. 

To his great satisfaction and the near ear-splitting hollering of the watching aurors Newt does in fact manage to send auror Harris off the strip to land on his backside amongst the crowd, a feat which Newt can admit, if only to himself, he achieved partially by luck since Harris’ combat skills are in fact almost (but not quite) the equal of Harris’ arrogance. In fact Newt advances through another two rounds before a slender auror with a glint of steel in her eyes does the same for him. The defeat is mitigated somewhat by the many cheerful pairs of hands that reach down to help him back to his feet and pat him on the back for his efforts. 

The duelling strip is lined either side by tiered benches and it’s to these that Newt retreats once his score is finalised, and it’s here that he once more runs into Harris. The two of them sit in companionable defeat, discussing the techniques of the remaining combatants and drinking the frankly awful cinnamon butterbeer that seems to be the only thing on offer. It’s here Newt is sat, surrounded by a slowly growing group of aurors whose first names he’s only just started to remember after several weeks of working consultancy amongst them, when Percival finally makes his appearance. There is of course a ranking system to the order of duelling, one which means that participants of a certain calibre only join the proceedings when the ‘chaff’s been separated out’ as Harris puts it wryly and with a wince to suggest his new status as  _ chaff  _ is going to be a problem for him later.

Of course once the major players like Director Graves step up to the strip the tone of the competition changes entirely. Newt had been a little surprised to hear that such high-ranking officers take part in the contest, but his ignorance is gleefully enlightened by the aurors who can tell him in quite excruciating detail the final placings of every notable duellist for the last fifty years. And the Director has been present at the top for a very large portion of that time.

It is fair to say that Percival Graves is an accomplished combat auror. It’s also quite accurate to say that he progresses through the rest of the competition in the words of auror Alvarez ‘like a hot knife through butter.’ Newt watches the final rounds of the competition with all the intense fascination of one who has a keen interest in the outcome. At least, that’s what Harris assumes, but as the duelling progresses it becomes clear to him that there’s only one person Newt has eyes for, and with a curious quirk of his eyebrows the auror files that information away for later use.

Percival Graves is a  _ very _ fine auror, Newt thinks as he watches the man duel. He has the easy grace and speed of the professional, married to an ability to read his opponent’s intentions that borders on prescience. That and the rather flattering cut of his formal duelling suit mean that Newt quickly loses interest in the commentary going on around him, and never catches the looks of curiosity directed his way as he fails to acknowledge his companions' attempts to explain what’s going on. Not that he needs such input from the gathered aurors, but it’s often polite to humour your hosts. 

“Pick up any good techniques?” Harris asks him once the competition has reached its inevitable conclusion, and for a moment Newt just blinks at him. “You were giving the Director the eyeball the whole time.”

“Ah, yes, well,” Newt stammers, and looks back out across the crowd to where the duelling strip has been dissembled allowing people to mingle in the space. Percival Graves is down there speaking to the other contestants, no doubt assuaging wounded pride with that silver politician’s tongue of his. “Anyway, will you excuse me? I’ve gone and left something back up in the office.”

And Newt slips away, leaving Harris to call after him, “Come back for the trophy ceremony, won’t you?”

_ Maybe, _ Newt thinks. As long as he can remember to keep his eyes somewhere  _ other _ than the Director, considering no-one’s supposed to be in on that. He finds his way back to the bullpen upstairs, both pleased he now has free run of these floors and simultaneously ignoring what that says about his place amongst the great bureaucratic machine of MACUSA. The irony of becoming so enmeshed in the daily operations of aurors - even aurors from the other side of the world - is not lost on him. 

In truth he has no need to be up here save to escape further remark from the all too observant amongst the team, and eventually he finds himself in the little corner nook where they chain the coffee machine, encouraging the thing with all the skill he’s obtained taming dangerous beasts to produce something on the right side of drinkable. He’s only just finished extracting a beverage loosely resembling a coffee when he hears the quietest of footfalls behind him.

“I thought I’d find you hidden away up here.”

Percival Graves is leaning against the divider that separates the kitchen nook from the rest of the bullpen. His hands are in his pockets and his head is tilted to regard Newt, and he’s smiling in the way that always manages to make Newt take a sudden sharp breath. The Director is still in his duelling suit, with its subtle reinforcing and woven in protective charms - American duelling being a sport where no punches are pulled - and it makes him look rather dashing, even if Newt wouldn’t ever quite work up the courage to say so out loud. At least not in public like this.

“Hello, Percival,” he does manage. “Well done out there.”

Graves shrugs, as though seeing off thirty other highly skilled duellists is all but nothing to him, and raises his eyebrows. “I saw you placed well yourself.”

“Ah,” Newt says. “Not that well. I’m uhm, better in the field, shall we say?”

Graves laughs, but he doesn’t gainsay the claim. “Yes, I can believe that. Formal duelling’s an art unto itself.”

For a moment they remain looking at one another, Newt a little shyly, even though he could kick himself for it, and Graves with the edge of amusement that says he’s still enjoying the fact he can make Newt blush just by existing next to him. A feat Newt finds entirely unfair, something he’s about to mention when Percival says, “Any reason we’re still standing here, Mister Scamander?” And then he flicks his eyes briefly upwards to a point above Newt’s head.

Following his gaze Newt takes a moment to consider appropriateness of placement, and perhaps predictability too, considering the proximity of the coffee machine. “You know,” he replies thoughtfully. “Mistletoe is an important component not only in various love potions, although only in small amounts due to its toxicity, but also as a symbol of rebirth owing to its significance in multiple different-”

“Newt?”

“Er, yes?”   
  
“Come here.”

Despite his usually contrarian inclinations when it comes to people of authority, Newt has neither the desire nor the preference to escape this one, at least not this time. Laughing he goes into the Director’s embrace and tilts his head to accept his kiss, which Percival offers along with the firm encircling of his arms around Newt’s waist. Thus engaged the first either of them hear of newly arrived company is the very soft word spoken into the otherwise silence with a strange mixture of glee and the awareness that immediate flight might soon be required.

_ “Busted.” _

They break apart, Percival turning to look and Newt finding himself immediately flushed to a bright crimson at their newly acquired audience.

“Hey, boss. Hey,  _ Scamander.  _ I  _ knew  _ I was right.”

Harris is grinning and the four aurors gathered behind him all seem to be in various states of cautious amusement, as though they’re not  _ quite _ sure if they need to scarper.

“Well, Harris,” Percival drawls. “At least you’re a better detective than you are a duellist.”

That provokes a bark of startled laughter from Newt, and, tension broken, the rest of the aurors fall into good-natured laughter and a thorough round of ribbing directed entirely at the somewhat safer target of Harris’ perceived flaws. Newt is relieved by the shifting away of their attention, and it’s only because he knows Percival  _ very _ well now that he sees that relief mirrored in the other man’s eyes when he turns back.

Graves draws in a deep breath and flicks his eyebrows briefly towards Heaven. “The cat, as the No-Majs say…” 

Newt blinks, shaking his head slightly. “There’s a cat?”

Percival pauses, then laughs. “Newt...never mind. How about we take this group of reprobates out and show them a good time?”

Newt would have to say he’s not terribly fond of speakeasy outings with the aurors, and this thing between them is so new that it’s still mostly a secret, but the gentle pressure of Percival’s arm around his waist and the amusement in the man’s eyes set him at least a little at ease. After all, if Percival is fast in the duelling ring then his tongue is faster when it comes to cutting down anyone with an off-colour opinion. And besides, he tells himself, if they’ve finally been rumbled then perhaps they ought to live it up a little.

“It  _ is  _ Christmas,” he notes.

“Damned straight,” Percival replies, and with a smile that makes him look unexpectedly roguish, takes Newt's arm and leads him out into the New York night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow: Buying gifts for men that have, if not everything, then at least very different tastes to you.


	2. Gifts For That Special Magizoologist In Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In retrospect, the words “day trip to the jungle” should have rung more alarm bells for Percival Graves than they apparently did.

In retrospect, the words “day trip to the jungle” should have rung more alarm bells for Percival Graves than they apparently did. He’s thinking this, and cursing his past self’s glaring lack of foresight, as he runs full pelt down what can only be very loosely called a track through the undergrowth. It’s more akin to a wandering chain of interconnected, dubiously clear gaps between the plants, and Graves can only hope it really is the path they came in on because if not then he’s going to have to pray to Morgana he’s got as good a memory of the embassy back in town as he thinks he has. Not that he’s going to be apparating anywhere else right now because as far as he’s concerned this whole place looks exactly the same no matter what direction you turn in. Trees, vines, insect cloud, tree, more vines, bigger insect cloud, extra tree, that sort of thing.

“Percy! You have to veer left!”

Over the angry drone of the swarm that’s currently in hot pursuit of him - so apparently there are magical flying ants in the jungle, who would have thought? - Percival dives left through a patch of immense waxy leaves bigger than dinner plates, and emerges onto what he recognises as the track leading to the trap Newt’s rigged up. The benefit of this particular path is its wide, relatively unimpeded length which leads to the invisible bubble of force that’s going to save him from the swarm and provide Newt with specimens for one of his  _ very important studies. _

Behind him the angry drone of the magical ant swarm (much feared for the sound of their wings which some say mimic the moans of the dead, Percival!) rises to an almost eye-watering pitch as they swirl into the gap between leaves he’s just left behind, coalescing angrily above the bushes in an attempt to relocate him. He knows they’ve worked it out from what he could swear was a gleefully vengeful uptick in the pitch of their buzzing. He also knows that if they catch him their venom leads to a painful death, one possibly preferable to the disappointment on Newt’s face if he ends up zapping the lot of them in self-defence.

Percival runs.

*

“Say, ah, Mr Graves, sir?” 

Tina’s voice has that hesitancy so common to people who’ve spotted a higher-up doing a stupid thing but whose careers most likely rest on the good will of the aforementioned idiot. Keeping his expression very carefully mild Graves turns to look at her. 

Tina glances from his face to the Italian silk tie he’s holding consideringly in his hands, and then back again. It doesn’t take an interrogator’s skills to know that she’s working on a way of telling him that this is not the correct gift.

Percival looks down at the very nice tie. “Too much?”

Tina gives a curious half-shrug half-shake of her head that seems to ultimately translate to  _ yes, _ and says, “I think Newt would probably get more use out of something...practical?”

“Practical, right.” He pauses for a moment, then says, with only a hint of mischief, “Socks?”

Tina reacts with less distaste than he’d expected, giving an actual shrug this time. “Or something for his fieldwork.”

“Fieldwork, yes,” Graves echoes thoughtfully. “Something for his  _ fieldwork...” _

*

It takes them six hours to find their way back out of the jungle, and that’s on top of the two hours Newt spends collecting samples of magical flying ants. Percival, with what he privately considers immense self-restraint, manages not to ask why Newt is collecting magical flying ants in the first place. He waits calmly and quietly, like a proper bodyguard should, until Newt is entirely ready for them to go, and then he proceeds to follow Newt through the jungle good-naturedly until it becomes entirely clear that Newt hasn’t got the faintest idea where they are.

“I’m sorry,  _ what _ ate your compass?”

“Well, it was a subspecies of giant Runespoor actually, though he wasn’t deliberately trying to eat the compass, well, that is to say,  _ two _ of the heads weren’t. It was really the third one being quite unpleasant, but that’s actually to be expected. You see, the older they get-”

“Newt.”

“-yes. Right. Uhm...this way I think?”

By the time they see civilisation again in the form of the local village, Percival is about ready to spontaneously combust from the foulness of his temper, and Newt, well, Newt is still chattering on about flying ant murmurations and the deeper meaning thereof, albeit at a somewhat higher pitch and faster rate that indicates he has in fact cottoned on to his partner’s less than stellar mood. 

They do not spend the night at the village, instead heading straight back via apparition to the local embassy, and from there via portkey to New York. Newt seems cautiously pleased with their day trip, announcing with some triumph, “See, Percy? I told you we’d be there and back in a day!”

Percival, well aware that it’s a scant three minutes to midnight, chooses diplomacy, or at least the path of least resistance, and takes himself off to shower and apply some balm to the scattering of ant bites he’s got on his arm. In all fairness, he thinks as he scrubs the day’s grime away, he  _ had _ volunteered to go along with Newt on this trip, and in a fit of dented pride he’d also resolutely ignored the unconvinced look in Newt’s eye at the news. He’s not entirely sure what else he’d expected, knowing Newt. Or at least having read between the lines of some of the stories he’s been told. 

When he finally steps out of the shower it’s to find a little pot of balm left on the bed for him by Newt, and by the time he’s finished applying this he has to admit that maybe fieldwork,  _ jungle _ fieldwork at any rate, isn’t necessarily for him. Newt, no doubt, will have his work cut out pretending not to be thrilled at the news. 

  
  


*

In the end Percival buys him a compass. He enchants it with a few handy cantrips: an inbuilt  _ lumos _ spell, a waterproofing charm, a few other elemental resistances, and finally inserts a tiny locator gem that should respond to summons from up to two miles away. He’s privately rather pleased with that last, but considering the scrapes Newt’s admitted to getting into over the years he’s not entirely sure it’ll be enough.

He’s just putting the neatly wrapped box under their tree when he hears footsteps behind him. Newt leans in over his shoulder to place a rather hefty present beneath the branches and Graves gives it a considering look. 

“Hm,” he says. “That looks interesting.”

“Oh, yes,” Newt says cheerfully, then hesitates. “I’m- well. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Percival raises an eyebrow at this. “...fine?”

“You uhm, probably shouldn’t touch it,” the magizoologist says, pursing his lips and giving a tiny head bob. “At all.”

Percival  _ thinks _ he sees a gleam of mischief in Newt’s eye as he hurries off in the direction of the kitchen, but you know what? Sometimes he just can’t tell. He gives the box a long, resigned look, and then pushes himself to his feet to go in search of supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's in the box. It's probably a new tie, but Newt's wicked at heart so he's probably going to maintain it's highly flammable and/or explosive right up until the last minute.
> 
> Fireworks tomorrow? It's Christmas Eve and that...works. It works.


	3. The Annual Christmas Eve Raid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, I’m absolutely certain we’re _not_ allowed in here.”
> 
> The aurors have a plan and they've taken Newt along with them to carry it out. At some point someone might actually tell Newt what it is they're up to.

“No, I’m absolutely certain we’re  _ not _ allowed in here.”

“Tell me, Scamander,” Harris says over his shoulder. “When has that ever stopped you before?”

Newt gives the trio of aurors an exasperated look which they return with wickedness in their smirks, at least Alvarez does. Okafor’s answering smile is practically beatific. Newt can hardly believe that he’s being dragged into this, and he’s about to say as much when Harris knocks over a stack of boxes with a loud clatter that has the other two whipping round to catch the contents before they spill everywhere.

“Be  _ careful,” _ Alvarez hisses.

Dragging the boxes hastily back into place, Harris frowns around. “Can’t one of your little critters help us out here, Newt? The- the Niffler?”

Newt physically balks at the idea. “Oh good heavens, no! You  _ really _ don’t want him loose in here!”

Opening a locked cabinet, Alvarez peers inside, lifting her wand to light the corners and read the labelling. “Come on, Newt. People are relying on us.”

When Newt simply turns his exasperated expression on her, Okafor adds, “It  _ is _ a tradition!”

Closing his eyes very briefly, Newt weighs up the benefits of them finding what they’re looking for, versus the very real possibility that Percival is going to  _ Disapprove. _ The very real  _ certainty _ he amends after half a second of thought. Still, recently he has been chafing beneath the weighty yoke of bureaucracy, and this would allow him to regain a little of his valued freedom. 

“All right,” he sighs. “All right, fine. They’re going to be somewhere fireproof, surely?”

“Ha!” Harris, laughs. “You’d hope.”

Newt blinks at him, then frowns at the frankly novel sensation of being the only responsible adult present, before giving in and joining the search.

*

Between the four of them it only takes around half an hour to locate the box of confiscated fireworks. The historical evidence locker is, quite frankly, an absolute mess, the extent of which Newt is genuinely astonished by. He finds himself thinking the place could do with someone to tidy it up into some semblance of order, and then spends a few minutes having a minor funny turn at the realisation he might be getting both old, and worse, indoctrinated to the ways of the System. He’s only rescued from his spiralling identity crisis by Alvarez, who drags an enormous box out into the light of their wands with a cry of glee.

They return to the Major Crimes bullpen, collecting their lookout from her station at the end of the corridor, and, once more ensconced in the safety of their home territory, the remainder of the team gathers round to watch as the newly liberated fireworks are laid out for inspection.

“People actually tried to let those off in the middle of New York?” Newt asks, impressed despite himself at the sheer audacity. The biggest of the rockets is almost three feet long and as thick around as his upper arm. “What do they even do?”

“Explode,” Harris says.

“Into a dragon,” Okafor adds.

“Oh really?” Newt asks with interest. “What species?”

“Antipodean Opaleye, if my memory is correct. Which I’m sure it is.”

The voice makes the entire team straighten up and puts a wince onto Newt’s face he can do nothing to prevent. “Oh, uhm, hello, Percival,” he says into the echoing silence.

The Director has his hands in his pockets in a way that suggests he’s entirely at ease with finding his best aurors and his boyfriend all poring over the illicitly liberated contents of the historical evidence locker, each one of them possessed of nothing less than full intent to make further mischief. Well, other than Newt. Newt has nothing against fireworks except where they disturb the local fauna, but he also doesn’t want his travel Visa revoked again, and the only thing that’s keeping him here is the certainty that if he goes down for this he can make a damned good case for dragging the rest of them along with him.

With the casual self-confidence of being the biggest predator in the room, Graves strolls over to peer inside the dusty box and then at the truly astonishing array of contraband. His eyes pass over fat rockets and intimidatingly weighty Roman Candles, linger a moment on the garishly decorated selection of whizzers, and finally make their way back up to meet Harris’ eyes. 

“Is this all of it?” he asks mildly.

“Uh, yes,” Harris nods. “Everything we could find.”

“Hm,” Graves nods thoughtfully.

Newt can clearly read the tension emanating from the gathered aurors and is already counting the ways he can talk them all out of this predicament. He  _ could _ say he needed the gunpowder to feed the Salamanders, but he’s not sure that won’t just raise Percival’s alarm levels even further. That having been said, gunpowder’s a good substitute for sulphur in a sympathetic sense if you  _ sortof _ squint, so he might get away with saying it’s for an anti-infection balm. 

“And you realise of course the illegality of letting  _ any _ of these off within the bounds of a city, and to a fifty mile radius thereof?” the Director is asking.

“Oh yes, sir.” 

There’s a chorus of hasty affirmatives and sensible head-nodding from the gathered aurors, and Newt risks a quick squint sideways around at them all, a little put out by their collective display of bootlicking now someone of real Authority is present. Honestly, what had he expected?

“You’d need to be out at least as far as the unplottable camp north of Storm King Mountain to use them,” Alvarez says, and then adds after a beat, “With a proper Imperturbable cast up of course.”

“Of course,” Graves says mildly, turning to acknowledge her. 

“And a permit,” Harris says.

“And a permit, yes,” the Director confirms.

There’s a tense shifting of feet, and Newt thinks  _ bloody permits for everything in this country  _ and then wonders why the silence is stretching. And stretching. Graves is regarding Harris with all the benign curiosity of someone who definitely has the upper hand here and wants to see everyone else squirm, and Newt is just about to step in and tell him to stop being so damnably smug when Harris says, “I did put it on your desk.”

“Oh!” Graves says, as though only just remembering. “So you did!”

And then he reaches into his jacket, turns a folded piece of paper over to check it’s the right thing, and hands it over. Harris accepts it, unfolds it to read it through, and then grins.

“Nice one, boss,” he says.

“What?” Newt asks, blinking, and what he really means is  _ what the hell is going on here? _

“I brought your greatcoat, Newt,” Percival says, turning to him. “And your broom. Better grab your things, it’s a good two hour flight.”

The aurors are already scattering, some to pack up the fireworks and others to grab brooms and cloaks and bottles that look suspiciously alcoholic in nature. “What is this?” Newt asks, still a little uncertain. “Is this, are we?”

Percival, still standing with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his face just raises his eyebrows and says nothing. Okafor, passing by with a suddenly acquired hamper leans in and says, very solemnly, “It’s a tradition.”

And then someone hands him a bag of what smells like sandwiches and Newt is hustled away, still confused, to prepare for the flight.

*

It is apparently, as Okafor had declared, a tradition of the Major Crimes team to run an “illicit” raid on the supplies in the historical evidence locker to acquire the entertainment for one last Christmas Eve celebration. If that evidence seems to magically refill itself each year then this is not commented upon, but is duly liberated for the evening’s celebrations, along with anything potable that can be found. Then they all fly north for a few hours - and Newt’s pretty sure he’s not seen such cack-handed formation flying, made entirely worse by the truly dreadful singing, since his Hogwarts days. It had been absolutely fantastic in all honesty. 

Newt stands beneath Percival’s flying cloak, sharing the warmth of his body, and passing a bottle of firewhisky back and forth between gloved hands as they watch the display. There’d been more fireworks than even he’d realised, and he’d been there for the initial liberation, plenty enough to last them through the evening. Later, once the food and the fireworks alike are all gone, they’ll wish each other a final season’s greetings, and go their separate ways, some back to New York, others bound for family homes further afield. For now though there’s nothing but the company, the glitter of the fireworks far above the forest, and the presence of the man at his side.

Newt is not accustomed to spending the holidays with anyone but his beasts, and so the contentedness he feels comes as a surprise even to him. He takes a moment to look sideways at Percival, standing with his arm settled securely around Newt’s waist, and finds himself smiling. When Percival feels his attention he smiles in return, and filled all over again by a sudden warmth, Newt says, “It’s a good tradition.”

Percival nods and accepts the flask of firewhisky. “One of many you'll join in with, I hope. With me, that is.”

Newt doesn’t reply, but he does lean in and finds to satisfaction that the firewhisky tastes just as good on the lips of his partner as it does straight from the flask. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas Eve to you!
> 
> Tomorrow: Wingfic.


	4. The Christmas Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last bust before Christmas, and of course it can't be simple. Someone's cursed Percival and now he has wings. _Wings,_ Newt!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This barely, _barely_ scrapes the very lower limits of the M rating. Just sayin'.

To their credit the aurors had kept their curiosity in their gazes rather than voiced aloud, although there’d been a deeply awkward moment when Harris had rather unwisely asked how  _ heavy _ they were. Newt had exchanged an alarmed glance with Cressida Buchanan, the senior curse breaker, and where Newt had floundered in the face of imminent death, she had turned disaster aside with a few neatly inserted words of absolute scathing.

“Away with you, Harris! Unless you’re a now a curse breaker as well as a fool?”

Harris, neither curse breaker nor, apparently, fool enough to press the issue, had indeed slunk away into the background.

The subject of the aurors’ morbid fascination had of course been the glaring and deeply agitated form of Director Graves, standing stiff and silent in the centre of the bullpen. Director Graves, and his new set of  _ wings _ that is.

Black as finest jet and gleaming with the blue oil spill of refracted light where the glow of the table lamps catches them just right, Percival Graves’ wings stand as proof that one should never underestimate the seriousness of a wand with a cracked core, or the ill-advised choice of standing in front of one when the criminal holding it decides to cast with it anyway. 

_ Wings. _

Of course, Newt would never say so out loud, at least not in front of all those people, because he knows Percival very well by now, but actually they’re really rather beautiful. His mother has a Hippogriff with wings that colour, and Newt has always thought him a rather fine beast. But no, he definitely did  _ not _ say that out loud because he knows how Percival gets about compliments. 

They retreat back to Percival’s a little after ten in the evening, once Cressida has announced the curse ultimately harmless, albeit somewhat awkward, and that its duration is likely to be around the three day mark. The Director can continue his work from home, unless he wants to remain in the office for observation - which Percival does not,  _ thank you, _ Ms Buchanan - and someone will see that his paperwork is brought over. 

The curse doesn’t appear to have affected Percival’s ability to use magic in any way, although it had taken an almost Herculean effort on Newt’s part not to ask if he would consider testing their capacity for flight rather than simply apparating them both back home. They apparate. Percival keeps up a notice-me-not charm around them both that almost burns the skin off such is its anger-driven potency, but which has them in through the front door of his town house with no-one the wiser. 

The house is cold. Winter has the city full in its grip, and snow piles against the walls outside. New York winters are colder by far than anything that troubles London, and although Newt is well-travelled enough that such weather is hardly a concern to him he’s still not one for sitting in a freezing house when the possibility of a fire is but the flick of a wand away. 

“I’ll uhm, I’ll go set a fire in the hearth,” he says. Percival, already marching resolutely towards the kitchen, merely grunts a response.

Well, this is going to be a  _ wonderful  _ evening, Newt thinks to himself as he makes his way through to the living room. He swishes his wand in the direction of the Christmas tree as he does so, and a hundred tiny candles flicker into life, lighting the whole corner of the room up with a welcome glow. Newt’s quite proud of that tree actually, although he’s not admitted to it. Usually he’s either on the road over the festive period or simply doesn’t bother with one just for himself, so the chance to have a full one set up is quite the novelty for him. They’re a day past Christmas now, and the US doesn’t appear to have a Boxing Day, but Newt has no intention of taking the tree down any time soon. At least not until Epiphany and he will  _ fight _ Percival on that one.

He’s halfway through stoking the fire up when Percival returns.

“Help me get my damned coat off, will you?”

There’s a distinctly frustrated note to Percival’s voice and when Newt twists round to look the other man is standing with an expression of almost pained frustration, as though the entire world has suddenly betrayed him. It makes Newt turn his head back to the fire to hide his smile. It’s not nice to be cursed, but there’s something about the overreaction of an auror with wounded pride that tickles him somewhat. Still, he doesn’t like that note of genuine upset in his partner’s voice, and he pushes himself to his feet, dusting off his hands. 

“Come over here where it’s warm,” he says gamely. “I’ll take a look.”

It appears that magical wing-bestowing curses have enough intelligence in them to create nicely seamed holes in shirt, jacket and coat through which wing struts can fit, but not enough to provide any easy way of actually removing the garments in question. Newt ends up cutting Percival out of his clothes, wincing as he does so, and promising to apply the best of his mending spells later. Percival endures this with a grim expression, and honestly Newt wouldn’t like to be the perp that caused all this mess when the Director gets round to writing his reports. 

Eventually they settle in front of the fire, Percival on the rug and Newt beside him because the armchairs, as delightfully comfortable as they are, were not made with bearers of man-sized wings in mind. There’s a bottle of firewhisky between them and Newt is watching Percival brood over the rim of his tumbler, the firelight reflecting in the darkness of his eyes. Unable to help himself, Newt lets his gaze wander over the auror’s new appendages, from the long, sleek feathers of the primaries up to the shorter coverts. There’s a scattering of water droplets beading across the upper curves of the wings where stray snowflakes have melted together in the heat of indoors and formed tiny glistening spheres, bright as glass baubles. 

“You’re as bad as Harris,” Percival says, taking a sip of his drink, his eyes still on the fire.

Newt blinks and then shakes his head. There’s a hundred things he could say in response to that and somehow he knows that all of them will get him into trouble. Instead he looks at the way Percival’s shirt rucks up around the new bone structure on his back and he wonders then  _ are _ they heavy?

“You’re still damp,” he says instead. “Let me get a towel.”

He hooks a towel from the cupboard in the kitchen and brings it back through to find Percival has stretched out one wing to stare resentfully at the water melted along his feathers. When Newt goes down on his knees next to him he gives the magizoologist a rueful twist of his lips that’s probably intended as a smile.

“Well this’ll teach me to get out the damned way when someone points a wand at me.”

It’s an apology of sorts, Newt supposes. For the truly dramatic way in which the auror has not taken all this in stride. “Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” he offers.

“Yes, could have been an Unforgivable,” Percival says grimly and takes a sip of his drink.

“Oh, Percival, really!” Newt winces. He doesn’t want to think about what that damned wizard  _ might _ have cast rather than this very strange hex. “Shall I dry these off for you, or do you want to do it yourself?”

Percival gives him an unconvinced look, shifting the great mass of one wing uncertainly. His frown shows his indecision, and Newt is struck by the sudden insight that the wings may repulse him in some way.

“If you’d rather,” Newt says gently, offering the towel across.

“No...no,” Percival says, rolling his shoulders and making the tips of his feathers catch on the rug. He winces, and Newt mirrors the gesture. It would seem his brave auror has found something that truly unnerves him in this curse. “You can probably reach better than me anyway.”

Going down onto his knees next to him, Newt regards the gleaming curve of feathers. “I used to groom the Hippogriffs with my brother, so I so know how wings work. This won’t hurt.”

Percival frowns sideways at him, and appears to bite off whatever reply he was going to make, opting instead for another sip of his firewhisky.

“They found it quite relaxing I think,” Newt continues.

When he presses the towel down on in the first long sweep he pauses as Percival shivers in reaction, lifting his wing up and away just a little. 

“Easy there,” Newt murmurs. “I know it’s strange.”

“It’s not strange, it’s fucking weird,” Percival snaps. Immediately, he closes his eyes, and shakes his head once. “Sorry.”

Newt just smiles, shaking his head. He can feel the tension in the other man’s body, even though he’s trying to hold himself still. Carefully, making sure to telegraph his movements, he begins to slowly and gently wipe down the long feathers where the water beads in brilliant spots. As he brushes over their surface the feathers catch the light of the Christmas tree candles and reflect them back in gleaming trails, and Newt is struck by the beauty of it. He makes no mention of it to Percival though, certain the auror would not welcome the observation, true or not. 

He moves with no great speed or urgency, keeping the slow sweeps of the towel smooth and repetitive, until he feels to his satisfaction some of the tension go out of the wing, the long bones starting to lower from their taut posture. Newt can see the auror’s shoulders starting to loosen and with a glance notes that his eyes have closed, his tumbler of firewhisky held forgotten in one hand. He uses Percival’s state of relaxation to look again at the auror’s back. As he’d cut that fine coat and jacket from him he’d had chance to see and feel something of the new musculature beneath, but given time to really observe beneath the thinner material of his shirt Newt can get a better look at the muscles that now support these new appendages. He thinks to himself that if Percival really were to try flying he might be surprised by his own success. 

Eventually there’s no more water left, but Newt carries on stroking at the feathers anyway, watching the way the light plays across their surfaces and enjoying the muted crackle of the fire and the soft sound of the other man breathing. He wonders if Percival has managed to doze off still sitting upright, and is surprised when Percival leans forward suddenly to put his whisky glass down on the edge of the stone hearth. 

“Thought you’d drifted off,” Newt teases him gently.

“Nothing of the sort,” Percival murmurs, and the note of something else in the auror’s voice makes Newt glance twice at him. Graves has gone back to staring into the flames, but Newt knows that look and that tone, and it makes the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile he’s careful to keep out of the other man’s line of sight. 

“You know,” Newt says softly. “I know this is all rather odd, but there are hm, interesting avenues for potential investigation too?”

He waits, because he doesn’t want to push, and because Percival  _ isn’t  _ a field researcher and is therefore occasionally possessed of a complete lack of imagination that Newt finds frankly baffling, but also because he’s aware of how shaken the man has apparently been by all this. Newt doesn’t like to intrude or unfairly influence, or make someone feel uncomfortable - certainly not that! And he’s aware that other people have certain inhibitions instilled by upbringing or society or  _ education _ which more often than not make absolutely no sense to him. But then Percival lets out a deep sigh and flexes his shoulders again, making the great black wings lift and spread slightly beneath the magizoologist’s hands.

“Come round here,” he says, voice low, and Newt feels his breath catch and bites down on the smile that pulls at his lips. 

With Newt seated comfortably in Percival’s lap, long legs stretched out either side of his hips, they discover that the underside of these fascinating new appendages, where the feathers are small and layered beneath with down, are sensitive to the touch of inquisitive fingers. Newt realises to his satisfaction that if he drags his fingertips up through that softness then Percival will lean in with caught breath and bite him possessively at the nape of his neck in the manner that makes Newt want to wind his fingers in the other man’s hair and tug until he hears him growl. With the fire warm on his back Newt's not sure which of them is the more intense source of heat. He discovers quite quickly that Percival doesn’t like the swell of supporting muscles to be touched, something that strays too close to throwing him out of the mood, but it’s an error that can be recovered by Newt gently smoothing his palms along the strong upper bones of each wing until they shiver beneath his touch. Wings it would seem can be as interestingly sensitive, if you experiment, as any other more traditional part of the human body. 

It’s too awkward a thing for them to do what Newt would quite like for them to move on to, what with the tricky issue of balance and extra weight and the sudden depths of Percival’s impatience, a reaction quite marvellous as far as Newt’s concerned, but with a little bit of shifting they find that hands alone are good enough, at least for tonight. 

Afterwards, he sits in Percival’s lap, the auror’s forehead pressed to his shoulder, listening to the other man’s breathing slowly come back down to its regular rhythm. The lights of the tree are a hazy gleam in Newt’s eyes, and the heat coming off Percival’s body is almost hotter than the fire at his back. Newt sighs contentedly and flexes his back, making Percival murmur something in protest.

“How did you even know to do that?” Graves asks drowsily, his breath a hot puff against Newt’s neck.

“Do what?” 

“The...the thing with your fingers, under the feathers, you know.”

“Oh that,” Newt replies. Yes, that particular move had elicited exactly the response he’d been hoping for, answering a question and confirming a theory all at once. Pleased, he says, “Well I’d noticed that when Hippogriff wings are stimulated-”

He doesn’t get any further that that. 

_ “No!” _ Percival’s fingertips dig sharply into Newt’s flanks, making him jump and yelp at the tickling sensation. “Enough! Forget I asked! I don’t want to hear it! My god, Newt...”

Newt, still twisted to one side to evade Percival’s fingers and considering the merits of tugging on the auror’s hair again to get him to desist, realises all of a sudden what the other man has assumed. “From  _ observation,  _ Percival! Watching them preen one another! Good lord! I grew up on a Hippogriff stud!”

“You may think that’s helping your case, and yet…”

“Oh hush,” Newt says, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “Anyway, I didn’t hear you complaining just before. Quite the opposite in fact.”

Percival buries any further comment from Newt in a squeeze that leaves him gasping for breath and laughing regardless, and for a few moments they simply rock in time to some unheard rhythm, warmed by the fire and each other’s company. 

“You’re a terror,” Percival murmurs into his skin, and Newt laughs.

“Fortunately for you an observant one.”

They’re quiet after that, Newt already thinking of the many and varied sketches he could add to his notes, to say nothing of the first-hand observations of someone with wings that can actually  _ talk. _ It’s perhaps a thought best left for tomorrow, as right now Percival sits with his forehead resting against Newt’s shoulder, his breathing slow and deep as the warmth of the fire lulls them both. The tips of his wings trail out behind him on the floor and Newt follows the inky spill of feathers with his eyes, marvelling again over the molten gleam of candlelight along their lengths. His eyes drift to the tree, his thoughts back to Christmas, and he thinks with no small amount of amusement that Percival is not in any way the kind of Christmas angel he’d ever have expected. His gaze finds the star sitting a little crooked at the top of the tree, and he snorts a laugh. He’s certainly a little big for a tree topper. Merlin forbid any of the aurors make that particular connection, for they’ll be taking their life in their own hands if they dare put it into words.

“What?” Percival murmurs.

“Nothing,” Newt replies. Best not to ever allow that mental image to go anywhere beyond his own mind. “Go back to sleep.”

With the fire warming them both and Percival’s arms snug around his waist, Newt sits content, and lets himself drift off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Percival. Percival is the Christmas Angel.
> 
> Have a great day out there all of you celebrating, all of you not, and all of you just surviving through. Take care of yourselves. :]
> 
> Tomorrow: Director...Scamander?


	5. The Most (In)Famous Magizoologist Percival Graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infamous magizoologist Percival Graves has a run in with the British DMLE and their curious Head Auror.

The office of the Head Auror is an interesting place insofar as MoM officials’ offices go. It’s lined with carved walnut wood panelling and everywhere the eye descends there are trinkets and clues to indicate the man that holds office from here has something of a past. At least, Percival suspects that’s what the exotic artefacts and carefully tended miniature magical trees are supposed to suggest. He’s not sure really, men of a certain rank have such a tendency towards pretension and grandiose self-deceit that it wouldn’t be unfair to look around at the fascinating collection and wonder which of the man’s House Elves was sent out to buy it all. 

The rangy auror sitting at the desk opposite him is younger than Percival by he’d guess around fifteen years, possibly a little more, if he’s willing to admit it. For such a vaunted position as Head Auror of the British DMLE, his youth suggests either extremely potent family connections, or a genuine skill at his job, and from what Percival’s heard over the last few years it might be a little something of both. At least, judging by the thinned lips and roll of the eyes he gets off Theseus when the subject of his younger brother comes up, the Head Auror is nothing if not dedicated to his job.

It’s with a certain amount of caution that Percival meets the Head Auror’s eyes when the other man finally looks up from the report he’s been reading and locks gazes with him across the expanse of his old oak desk. The man has very green eyes, and the buried spark of mischief in them both makes Percival want to answer it with a grin of his own, but also warns him in no uncertain terms to watch his step with this one.

“I’m seeing here that you have a….Wampus Cat, Mr Graves?”

Percival doesn’t allow himself to shift, just offers the other man a half-shrug and his most charming of crooked smiles. It’s important when dealing with men like this one not to show any kind of fear whatsoever, otherwise they’ll latch onto it like a Kneazle on a rat. “It’s a magical breed native to North America, sir,” he says. “Quite harmless if handled with the appropriate respect.”

“Hm,” Newton Scamander, Head Auror says, and for just a second Percival wonders if he should have used his Floo call to summon Theseus to his assistance. But no, if ‘Newt’ Scamander comes from a distinguished bloodline then so too does Percival Graves, and the sons and daughters of the Graves line are also not known for backing down. He gives the Head Auror his coolest look.

“I’m not sure the owners of Harrods would agree.” Scamander continues, casting his gaze down the report. “Quite the venue your cat picked to explore, and although we appreciate your retrieving him I do believe the cassowary he was stalking has been left quite aflutter.”

Percival blinks at the steady gaze of the Head Auror and the suitably dry tone to the man’s words. He  _ does _ remember thinking he should probably take a minute to set straight some of the damage that little ruckus had caused. “Ah, right,” he says. “Sorry about that. The little guy should be fine once he’s calmed down, though I wanted to say they’re not keeping their animals in proper habitats, not suitable ones anyway. Too many predators with line of sight to prey animals, and just not enough space overall.”

Scamander’s expression is very still, other than the tiniest little lift of one corner of his mouth, and for a second Percival is reminded of nothing but the weight of a Nundu’s gaze, the one it gives you when it’s not  _ really _ hungry but could possibly just fit a tiny extra morsel in if it  _ really had to. _

“But I believe the store is still down a bird,” Scamander continues reasonably, “and that you have taken it into your care?”

“Well…” And here Percival finds himself stalling for time. He  _ does _ still have the cassowary, and had the damned aurors not turned up when they had he’d probably have made off with a fair few extra of the more exotic creatures - he’s en route back to Africa next month anyway, and he knows a couple of people that might take the lion cubs on for rehabilitation. “I’m not usually in the business of caring for non-magical beasts, but there’s certain similarities.”

Head Auror Scamander is watching him with the kind of narrow-eyed amusement that Percival’s frankly not accustomed to seeing on the faces of men of his position, and for a second it throws him completely off his stride.

“You’ll be pleased to know we managed to right the Christmas tree and replace the nativity display your creature destroyed, although I’m told someone had to spell up a new baby Jesus as apparently the previous one succumbed to your cat’s rather sharp teeth.”

“Yes, sorry about that,” Percival says. “Arthur likes to chew, and it’s in his nature to climb trees. He has the legs for it after all.”

“Does he.”

“Oh yes, fantastically good climbers are Wampus Cats.”

“...Arthur, you say?”

“Yes,” Percival nods. “Named after the town near to where I found him.”

“Ah,” Auror Scamander nods, setting the report back down on his desk, his eyes never once leaving Percival’s. “Not the king then.”

King? Oh right, Percival thinks. Some British legend - how ridiculous. “No...it was either Arthur or El Dorado, and I thought that a bit fanciful, you see?”

Scamander’s slow, considering blink suggests, rather to Graves’ surprise, that perhaps he  _ does  _ see, and the response leaves him surprised all over again. No matter how far apart their careers are, to say nothing of the sheer physical distance between them, Percival has actually heard several very interesting stories about Britain’s Head Auror. That he has ‘a Past’ is but one of them. That his methods are curious and prone to causing aneurysms in certain political circles is another, along with the cautiously whispered names of some of his rumoured associates. In fact, were the man not such a MoM slave, Percival would already have extended an olive branch so to speak.  _ Careful, _ he thinks. Thes’ warned you this fella’s a quirky one. Doesn’t mean he’s not still a damned auror.

“Tell me, Mr Graves,” Scamander says, setting the sheaf of report papers back on the desk and tilting his head in curiosity. “How exactly  _ did _ you encourage a Wampus Cat to join you on your travels?” 

“Ah, well,” Percival says, and shakes his head. This is a question that comes up all too often and it’s one he’s not sure he welcomes. People get strange ideas about the suitability of beasts as pets if you start making them sound too cute. When he looks up again it’s back into those striking green eyes with their expression of apparently sincere curiosity, and Graves is struck by the sudden thought that if he could find some kind of in with this man then he’d have the ear of one of the most politically influential men this side of the planet. And that, for the sake of the beasts, wouldn’t necessarily be such a bad thing. 

_ Thes’ will kill you if you do this, _ he thinks to himself. Ah, to hell with it! Percival Graves did not become the pre-eminent field magizoologist that he has by being a coward. And besides, if the guy locks him up for his cheek he’s still got his one Floo call left to make. “It’s quite a long story, auror Scamander. What say you and me talk it over in one of those local ‘pubs’ of yours?”

Newton Scamander smiles, dropping his eyes to busy himself with scrawling his signature onto the report before sending it winging on its way in the claws of a waiting owl. Then, to Percival’s immense surprise and no little shock, he folds his hands in front of him on the desk, leans forward a little and says, “All right. Let me get my coat.”

_ Quirky indeed, _ Percival thinks, and pushes himself to his feet.

“Oh, and Mr Graves,” Scamander says, turning back to him. Percival can see the tiny smile that’s lifting the edge of the other man’s mouth and between the strands of his curling forelock the glint of his green eyes, alive with amusement. “Perhaps you ought to bring your case with you? Maybe you can introduce me to Arthur and all the rest of your...associates. After dinner perhaps.”

Only then does Percival pause to wonder what the hell he’s getting himself into, but of course now it’s far too late, and the beast he’d not even noticed prowling has apparently already caught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harrods used to sell lion cubs and baby elephants. [No, really.](https://www.globalanimal.org/2014/01/14/famous-pet-store-closes-doors/115406/)
> 
> There's one more fic to come in this little series which I'll put up on NYE, because we've not had the animagus new year resolutions one yet. But there might also be one more between, however no promises as I am, unfortunately, working through this holiday season. 
> 
> Hope you're all keeping well out there. :]


	6. What The Cat Says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If an animagus were to make New Year's resolutions, what would they be? The aurors certainly have opinions, but only Newt knows the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm predictable. Have some final jaguar!animagus Percival fic to round off the year. :]

“Don’t shed on the bed.”

“Seriously? She said that to you?”

Newt tips his head back and stretches his socked feet out in the direction of the fire. “Tina can be really quite cheeky sometimes, you know.”

“I’m going to dock her pay!” 

“Percival!”

They laugh, or at least Newt does - he has the slight suspicion that Percival is more offended by Tina’s guess than Newt had been. But then, Percival is secretive about his status as an animagus, and Tina’s idea had shown more than a little ignorance. 

“I don’t shed on the damned bed! Why would I even sleep on the bed as a jaguar? It’s a bed for humans, not beasts!”

Newt’s laugh is just a little uncomfortable and he reaches out for the wine bottle to refill Percival’s glass. He hadn’t wanted to play this particular game with the aurors in the office and he’s definitely regretting telling Percival they’d done so. What  _ had _ he been thinking? He should know by now that too much wine loosens his tongue far too much.

“What else did they guess?” Percival demands, blood now thoroughly up. 

Newt sighs. If Percival hadn’t liked that guess, he’s not going to like the rest of them either. “Oh, they didn’t really. They gave up after that.”

Even through the warm fuzz of the alcohol he can  _ feel _ Percival’s gaze boring into the side of his head. “My aurors don’t just give up.”

Indeed they don’t. A friendly conversation about people’s plans and intentions for New Year had devolved with rather astounding rapidity into a guessing game about the kind of New Year’s resolutions an animagus might need to make, because everyone from the cook to the President is apparently fascinated by Percival Graves’ animagus lifestyle. And Newt, as his partner, and the safest option of the two of them, is first in the line of fire for inquisitive snoopers. Perhaps he ought to work on honing his glower, Newt thinks, because it’s truly  _ fascinating  _ how people can suddenly overcome their aversion to him when they think there’s some titbit of gossip he can reveal!

“Newt…”

“All right!” Newt thumps his head back against the sofa they’re leaning against and sighs. “Don’t keep stealing the Nundu’s dinner.”

There’s a silence, during which Newt refuses to turn his head sideways to look at Percival. The silences stretches taut, until eventually:

“Who said that?” 

“Who do you think?” Newt sighs.

“I’m damned well docking his pay too!”

Newt buries his nose in his wineglass and takes far too deep a draught, almost causing himself to choke. Percival reaches out and massages the back of his neck for him until Newt’s spluttering subsides. Wiping his mouth down with a handkerchief dragged hastily from his pocket Newt considers the merits of simply agreeing versus the fact that Harris  _ had _ been right on that one. Ah, well, damn it all…

“I mean you  _ did _ make off with that lamb haunch I’d bought in for him…”

“It didn’t have a label on it, Newt! It was up in the kitchen! What was I supposed to think?”

Newt decides not to press the issue, because really, if you leave a joint of meat unattended like that with a large feline around you’re really just asking for trouble. Not that he’d ever mutter those words aloud because  _ of course _ Percival has absolutely no impulse control issues as a jaguar  _ whatsoever. _

“All right, what else?”

To be honest, Newt’s not entirely sure that Percival isn’t secretly enjoying this little interrogation. It’s not like he doesn’t take great pleasure in cutting his aurors down to size whenever they come out with an ill-advised question relating to his abilities, and Newt knows for a fact he’s seen Graves tease them on more than one occasion by withholding information about exactly what he’s up to when out and about as a jaguar about the city. 

“Stop pretending you don’t understand human when you’re a beast-” 

“That’ll be Alvarez.”

“-well, yes, because you do that to her all the time. And no more tracking muddy pawprints over the floors.”

“I do not!”

Newt does turn to back look at Percival then, drawing his chin in and raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “You absolutely do, and that was Okafor’s guess by the way, based on  _ fact  _ because the last time you came in off the street as a jaguar you tracked mud from the elevator all the way down the corridor and up to the office and  _ he _ got relegated to spelling it clean.”

Percival blinks, and Newt can see him searching his memories for the offending occasion. Eventually his eyes narrow and he says, “I caught three perps that night, and they led me a merry chase all across Central Park, the bastards. It was autumn and it was muddy.”

“Excuses,” Newt snorts. “If I get into trouble bringing mud up from the case into the kitchen then you get into trouble for bringing it in off the street and leaving it for someone else to clean up!”

“Well, firstly Mr Scamander, mud in the kitchen is entirely unacceptable, it’s not hygienic, and secondly it’s me that notices it and has to clean it up!”

For the second time in as many minutes Newt finds himself spluttering, this time in outrage. “Mr Graves, while I commend you for your adherence to hygiene I can assure you that you are hardly the sole warrior in that particular fight!”

Percival’s burst of hearty laughter leaves Newt momentarily outraged into silence, until Percival leans in to hook a palm around the back of his neck and draw him close to kiss. There’s a brief back-and-forth in Newt’s mind as to whether or not he should give in to this blatant abuse of his affections, and then the warmth of the kiss wins out and Newt slides closer until they’re fitted together nicely. After that the discussion is quite forgotten for the far more pressing matter of who should sit where until eventually they settle on Newt in Percival’s lap with the fire at his back to warm them both.

So engaged with one another are they that they very nearly miss the midnight hour, and it’s only an early burst of fireworks that alert them to the time and send them scrambling for wine bottle and glasses. They toast the new year in together, side by side at one of the upper windows of Percival’s town house, watching the flicker of fireworks across the rooftops, and it’s nice. It’s  _ very _ nice, Newt thinks to himself, the fingers of his free hand laced with Percival’s. He steals a glance sideways at the other man and thinks to himself that there  _ had _ been one more resolution guessed at. It had come from Queenie, and she’d said:  _ Don’t hide what you are. _

Newt thinks of the way Percival holds himself apart from the rest of the aurors, not allowing them any real insight into the intricacies of his life, let alone his abilities as an animagus. It’s been the thing to bite him in the past, quite profoundly so, but old habits die so hard. Newt thinks of all the times he’s seen a different side to Percival than the suave and confidant Director he projects around the office. The times he’s been woken in the night by his nightmares, has seen the man made furious and embarrassed by it, and then held him close and quiet afterwards until his shivering goes away. He’s seen the deadly and aloof jaguar tracker roll on his back before the fire to warm his belly, and he’s sat with his feet propped up on those broad, black-furred shoulders while they both doze a Sunday afternoon away. He’s seen the secret mischief of Percival’s smile, and the honest laughter that makes him look ten years younger. Newt has seen an awful lot of things that Percival has never allowed anyone else to see.

In the sparkling illumination of the fireworks, Newt dips his chin and smiles sideways at the man he loves, and when Percival turns his head to meet his gaze he leans and kisses him. If he’s the only one that Percival will show these things to then that’s quite fine with Newt. He understands a secrecy like that, and he can hardly hold it against the other man. All he can do is make his own resolution to be the one that’s always there for him to do so.

“Happy New Year,” he says, and smiles when Percival softly agrees, and replies in kind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone. I hope 2021 brings us better in everything. Take care out there and thank you for reading. :]
> 
> If you want extra animagus fic, I actually wrote two, but the first one got completely out of hand wordcount-wise and thus got a separate fic of its own. Follow the series links above/below, as hopefully by the time you read this I'll have tagged it into this festive fics series, or [check it out here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456989)


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